Pitifully soft. Woefully soft. Stifled with resolve that's bound to the tips of curled fingers in white hair (nevermind that teasing pressure, nevermind the rub against his leaking slit— quick, quick, slow), he could stop his own efforts to douse his companion's, but then what of their sire? What of tonight? Cruelty won't satisfy their master. Pettiness might live under his own nail beds, but he's not a fool— and neither is Vakares, all truths being equal: any more vitriol would only be transparent as paned glass. Meaning the scales have tipped, somewhere along the way.
And it's Fenris that slakes himself.
On viciousness, on praising lifts of their master's upstirred hips— on the deepset fullness of a prick squeezed tight into the back of his own throat, insistently pressed flush (until drool runs in ruinously vulgar rivulets around the border between plush lips and cool skin, glistening in lowered lanternlight), and visible through the arch of Astarion's spread thighs. His sunset cheeks drawn thin and hollow with every suckling pull (each noisier and slicker than the last), his nostrils far from flared for how he's likely closed-off his own throat. And above it all, those wretchedly tempestuous eyes are raised in the shadow of long lashes kept half-lidded: proud of their wicked work and every weighted reward it finds— when every hum reverberates into sensation that isn't shared (and all Astarion is met with is the rough denial from cruel hands)—
Oh, it's not fair.
It's not fair, and he hates it. Resents it. Wracked with envy over shadowed little pangs of paler imitations of emulated bliss— his hearing saturated with those wet smacks and softer groans; his vision filled with alluring offers kept harshly from his reach— and he wants it (and it's not fair, and he hates it, and he resents it and he— ) Locks his fingers till they tremble. Pulls against that scalp, nearly keening in the back of his throat through mewls of half-held petitions: wordless little pleas lacking in shape or order, and yet still (still) find their way into asking please while his grip runs harsher on its own. No thought behind it. Nothing spiteful or demanding. Palms squared across each other and he pumps downwards against the creature that he holds— no, uses— that's the word for it. That's the narrow strip of difference between now and every second prior:
He uses Fenris.
He uses him like a toy. Like a suctioned little hilt shuttled rapidly over its designed subsumption: his head jerked up and down along that rigid span without sensuality involved— for no one ever seduces the fuckhole cut into a waiting wall, and no one checks the little storebought sheathe they've purchased for a quick, relieving rut to make sure it enjoys being rapidly shunted into in those few minutes before sleep. Within his grip, and with no stop for air or sweetness, Astarion wildly fucks down over their master's cock and rolls his hips with desperate envy— neglected, yes, but at least like this, with soft whimpers in his throat, he doesn't care if Fenris' fingers gift him more than just that padding bit of pressure.
His mind imagines more.
His mind imagines so much more ( —another push, another pump— again, again, again on loop— faster, fuck, go faster— ) as overstimulation swears against cold sense that it's Fenris' mouth wrapped richly to his hilt— shivering and pulsing and squirming like a bitch in utter need, arousal with its hand on both their necks—
no subject
Pitifully soft. Woefully soft. Stifled with resolve that's bound to the tips of curled fingers in white hair (nevermind that teasing pressure, nevermind the rub against his leaking slit— quick, quick, slow), he could stop his own efforts to douse his companion's, but then what of their sire? What of tonight? Cruelty won't satisfy their master. Pettiness might live under his own nail beds, but he's not a fool— and neither is Vakares, all truths being equal: any more vitriol would only be transparent as paned glass. Meaning the scales have tipped, somewhere along the way.
And it's Fenris that slakes himself.
On viciousness, on praising lifts of their master's upstirred hips— on the deepset fullness of a prick squeezed tight into the back of his own throat, insistently pressed flush (until drool runs in ruinously vulgar rivulets around the border between plush lips and cool skin, glistening in lowered lanternlight), and visible through the arch of Astarion's spread thighs. His sunset cheeks drawn thin and hollow with every suckling pull (each noisier and slicker than the last), his nostrils far from flared for how he's likely closed-off his own throat. And above it all, those wretchedly tempestuous eyes are raised in the shadow of long lashes kept half-lidded: proud of their wicked work and every weighted reward it finds— when every hum reverberates into sensation that isn't shared (and all Astarion is met with is the rough denial from cruel hands)—
Oh, it's not fair.
It's not fair, and he hates it. Resents it. Wracked with envy over shadowed little pangs of paler imitations of emulated bliss— his hearing saturated with those wet smacks and softer groans; his vision filled with alluring offers kept harshly from his reach— and he wants it (and it's not fair, and he hates it, and he resents it and he— ) Locks his fingers till they tremble. Pulls against that scalp, nearly keening in the back of his throat through mewls of half-held petitions: wordless little pleas lacking in shape or order, and yet still (still) find their way into asking please while his grip runs harsher on its own. No thought behind it. Nothing spiteful or demanding. Palms squared across each other and he pumps downwards against the creature that he holds— no, uses— that's the word for it. That's the narrow strip of difference between now and every second prior:
He uses Fenris.
He uses him like a toy. Like a suctioned little hilt shuttled rapidly over its designed subsumption: his head jerked up and down along that rigid span without sensuality involved— for no one ever seduces the fuckhole cut into a waiting wall, and no one checks the little storebought sheathe they've purchased for a quick, relieving rut to make sure it enjoys being rapidly shunted into in those few minutes before sleep. Within his grip, and with no stop for air or sweetness, Astarion wildly fucks down over their master's cock and rolls his hips with desperate envy— neglected, yes, but at least like this, with soft whimpers in his throat, he doesn't care if Fenris' fingers gift him more than just that padding bit of pressure.
His mind imagines more.
His mind imagines so much more ( —another push, another pump— again, again, again on loop— faster, fuck, go faster— ) as overstimulation swears against cold sense that it's Fenris' mouth wrapped richly to his hilt— shivering and pulsing and squirming like a bitch in utter need, arousal with its hand on both their necks—
And nothing but their own hands to blame.]